


Froufrou

by Nasyat



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: (in a way), Apples, Bad Puns, Family Headcanons, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maxwell Has A Brilliant Memory, Wilson Is A Silly Goose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 21:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasyat/pseuds/Nasyat
Summary: Maxwell remembered his first apple. A short, sketchy one-shot (Translated)





	Froufrou

**Author's Note:**

> The original work: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6626381  
> Honestly, kinda disappointed in this fic of mine, and it used to be my favorite. Well
> 
> Inspired by two Cocteau Twins songs - "Frou-frou Foxes in Midsummer Fires" and "Orange Appled".

Maxwell remembered his first apple. He was quite tiny back then – he barely turned two, when momma gathered him in her arms and began feeding little William with this peeled, sour pulp. He flailed and cried, offended as a baby he was, but mother seemed inexorable.

“Eat, William, this is good for you. Come on, Billy-boy…”

Maxwell winced and tapped on his forehead.  Memories were unpleasant. They pulled on some heartstrings, and reminiscence that used to bring so much joy (he remembered) now fared unwanted and even harmful: countryside, an orchard. Matilda, whom he called simply Mama-Ma, in a shabby apron, hands red and wrinkled (like prunes) after doing the laundry; he remembered his father’s figure, a little heavyset, but amiable and somewhat charming – such a rural gentleman with a sharp, black beard. Before his inner eye Maxwell saw big rabbits, which they kept for fun’s sake rather than meat or fur: Samuel, Penny, Rosemary, and… Percival. Images, names, dates, all spun around his head in a whirlwind of past days, and memory was his curse.

He remembered everything. Or pretty much about everything.

Wilson carried a small tree. Soil fell from its roots as the scientist bounced a bit, chewing something with overt enthusiasm. Maxwell, who’s spent the last half an hour trying to dig up a rather large stump, glanced at him with disaffection.

“What’s that, Higgsbury?”

Wilson tried to tell him, spluttering; drops landed on the pale, angry face, and Maxwell set the shovel aside, wiping off the sticky mix of juice and saliva with his sleeve.

“Swallow, and then talk! So much for being a gentleman…”

Wilson hummed, upset – he didn’t want to part with the in-cheek kickshaw, but diligently chewed and got it down anyway. He wiped his mouth before talking again:

“Well, my apologies. An apple tree!”

Maxwell leaned onto the handle and brushed grey hair out of his face and back into his usual thinning coiffure.

“Really? How strange. And apple trees suggest…”

“Apples! This big,” the scientist showed with his hand, “and sweet, like honey.”

A smile lit on his face – Maxwell read it as guilty with a touch of snide.

“I gathered some for you, but ate it all on my way back, I’m afraid.”

Glancing at the ‘gentleman’ with a smirk, Maxwell turned away and tackled his activity anew, chuckling scornfully.

“Predictable. You’re a swine, Higgsbury,” but the scientist quickly grabbed on his shoulder, laughing and offering him the backpack.

“I was just joking, you dummy! Here, I filled the whole bag, and it’s all yours!”

Those apples indeed turned out to be wonderful – firm, crunchy, moderately saccharine and packaged with fine, reddish skin. Maxwell helped his companion dig out a hole for the younger plant, and then cover its delicate roots with the soil. Wilson gazed at the apple tree with such tender pride, that Maxwell desperately sought to become that tree for a second. He bit out of the big, ripe apple that Wilson handed to him, and settled down on the straw roll by the fire.

He couldn’t remember one thing, and it bothered him to no end.

***

“Maxwell, do you know how fox’afire* talks?”

The older man raised his gaze from the fly-agaric, which he’s been twiddling in his fingers absentmindedly; his hands rested on his lap, and Maxwell himself – on the soft grass under the tree. Its lush foliage rustled quietly – the tree crown swayed from the sea breeze.

“Foxfire? Higgsbury, mushrooms can’t ta-“

And then Wilson made a sound that was somewhere in-between epileptic fuffing and a distressed yelp. Maxwell stared at his dark silhouette, stunned.

“It should be illegal to be this rowdy at your age,” he uttered perplexedly, and Wilson stepped up to his soles. A torch, which Maxwell stuck in the earth nearby, illuminated the scientist’s face – it looked exhausted, and the remnants of a smile seemed to droop down from it, like old paint would peel from the wooden gates.

“Can I do something?” He asked.

“It depends on what you intend to do,” carefully said Maxwell. Wilson stepped over his legs then. After trampling about for a bit, he took the mushroom out of the other’s hands and sat on his lap. The dumbfounded man let the other nestle into his chest.

“I’m so tired, Maxwell,” whispered the scientist, burying his face into the crumpled shirt. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The former magician raised his hand and, ever so carefully, stroke Wilson’s tousle. The shorty bathed recently and still smelled of soap, which he cooked himself out of calx, animal fat, and herbs (he taught Maxwell how to make it as well; it was apparent that Wilson took pride in that recipe, but the older man was slipping in more lavender than his instruction required). Maxwell, on the other hand, regretted not having a wash: his skin was sticky from sweat, his suit – dirty from foul blood of the Hounds, which they managed to ward off their camp at midday. He felt a gloomy, dry expression form on the other’s face, an expression that was usual for Wilson until he was joined by the dapper magician. This sent chills down Maxwell’s spine, and, with his free hand, he pulled the scientist closer.

“Can I ask you something?” To that, Wilson looked up and chuckled at him.

“It depends on what you intend to ask.”

Maxwell let the mockery slip and softly inquired:

“What’s your favorite hue?”

Wilson froze, and then pressed his forehead against him.

“I’d say orange. But with h’ue**, I’ve grown pretty fond of lavender myself.” Higgsbury was hiding his face, but Maxwell saw that he was blushing.

Free for interpretation, then. He stroked the other’s head more confidently, with affection.

“Have I asked you about it?”

The scientist fell silent. Finally, he choked out:

“No one had.”

Maxwell faltered, but Wilson raised at him a muzzy gaze of warm, melted eyes.

“Don’t stop,” he hesitated for moment, “please.”

Maxwell resumed his caress, and the younger man dropped his head. The magician reached to press his lips to the other’s temple, and Wilson drew a shaky breath, pushing towards.

Maxwell remembered everything. Hopefully, his little scientist didn’t possess such phenomenal recall.

**Author's Note:**

> * "Fox on fire". In the original, he asks about chanterelles - they are called "little foxes" in Russian.  
> ** A wordplay, since, apparently, Maxwell is "partial" to the lavender shade. The original had a different pun: "color" and "blossom" are the same word, and "orange" is an ironic answer, since it can mean both.


End file.
